


Stop and Smell the Hellebore

by eternalchange



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Harry Needs a Hug, M/M, Neville is a sweetheart, Neville is swept up in the force of nature that is Harry, Not Epilogue Compliant, Short & Sweet, and Harry is his usual oblivious headstrong self, especially the Elder Wand, the Hallows as a plot device
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4482653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalchange/pseuds/eternalchange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Harry had retreated into the manor at Grimmauld Place and lived the life of a recluse.  Neville had seen neither hide nor hair of him in the last few months – the last year, even.  Suddenly, Harry is back in his life, with a very strange request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Any characters and events that look familiar – probably not mine. Let’s just say that if they were, my bank account would have a lot more zeros in all the right places.
> 
> Note: This story goes with the assumption that all the epilogue didn't happen, and that no-one heard Harry mention the Elder Wand during his confrontation with Voldemort. Will have a homosexual relationship. Enjoy!

A cacophony of cheerful chatter and raucous laughter assaulted Neville’s ears as soon as he stepped into the pub. 

The Hog’s Head was still the same dingy and run-down shack it used to be. In fact, since the ownership of the Three Broomsticks had changed hands from Madam Rosmerta to a young migrant Polish couple, the new renovations made the contrast even more apparent. However, for all that the younger students of Hogwarts never missed an opportunity to crowd into the friendly warmth of the Three Broomsticks, the people of Hogsmeade seemed to seek out a certain comfort and familiarity that was unique to the Hog’s Head. For Neville, the establishment gave him a reassuring sense of survival and perseverance – proof that the some things stayed the same even in the wake of the violence and destruction that had wrought the small village.

Catching sight of Aberforth, Neville made his way to the bar.  “Hullo, Abe.  Business booming, I see?”

Aberforth looked up from the dusty glass he was wiping.  “More trouble than it’s worth, if you ask me,” he grunted.  “Can’t lock up at a decent hour anymore, what with the older kids flocking around here at the end of the day.”

Neville laughed at his peevishness and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, I just thought I’d come by to say hi before I returned home for the night.  It’s good to see you, Abe.”

As he turned to leave, Aberforth suddenly cast him a shrewd look.  “You know Harry Potter, don’t you?  Friends, if I recall right.”

Neville blinked in surprise.  “Er, yes, though I haven’t seen much of him lately.  Any message you’d like me to pass on to him?”

Aberforth snorted.  “Kid’s been in here since morning.  I gave him a private booth in the corner” – he jerked his thumb to the far side – “and he hasn’t moved a muscle since.  Do me a favour and check that he’s still alive.  I’ve got enough to do as it is without having to lug out the kid’s body.”

Frowning, Neville nodded.  “Of course, Abe, I’ll make sure he’s alright.”

As he walked toward the table, he couldn’t help the tendril of worry that wormed its way into him.  He had told Aberforth the truth; he had seen neither hide nor hair of Harry in the last few months – the last year, even.  After the war, Harry had retreated into the manor at Grimmauld Place and lived the life of a recluse.  He rarely stepped out of the house, except for occasionally poking his head into Hogwarts or the Burrow, and the dwindling visits to the Leaky Cauldron for their monthly DA reunions. 

When the new batch of Auror trainees had come and gone with nary a sign of the boy hero, wizarding Britain had been rife with wild speculations. When the next batch was once again devoid of Harry Potter, the rumours got louder and more outlandish. Some said he was amassing and training an army of house elves to take over the Ministry.  Others said that he was going Dark, living in seclusion in the Black manor and practicing rituals of great evil. 

Of course, Neville knew that it was nothing of the sort.  Ron and Hermione had told him that Harry had taken to the Black library with a previously unseen fervour, learning everything he could about the Healing Arts.  Given that he had only passed Potions because Hermione had badgered and tutored an ‘Acceptable’ out of him, this interest had initially come as a surprise to him.

But, as usual, Luna had summed it up quite nicely in that airy tone of hers, saying, “It’s Harry’s turn now.”

The last he had heard, Harry was studying laboriously for his N.E.W.T.s so that he could sit them with the current seventh years, together with Hermione and a reluctant Ron.

As Neville approached closer, he realised that Harry was staring fixedly at the table in front of him.  No … he was staring at the wand placed on the tabletop, brows furrowed as he contemplated something in a way that, given his propensity to act first and damn the consequences, Neville had rarely seen.

“Hey, Harry.”

Harry jerked and shook his head, looking up slowly as though coming out of a trance. “Hey, Neville. Fancy seeing you here. Come by for a drink?”

“Nah, just thought I’d check up on you – Abe’s getting a bit worried. Everything alright?”

It was as if Harry was only just noticing him for the first time.  His eyes seemed to sharpen into focus, the green irises shining more intensely.  Neville fought the urge to shiver under the unblinking gaze – he felt like a moth trapped in a blazing bonfire.

“Take a seat, Nev.  You don’t have anywhere to be, do you?”

Neville took his direction and sat down, wondering where this was going. “No, just some homework to mark for Pomona.”

Harry looked at him consideringly a moment longer, before nodding his head decisively. “You know the Invisibility Cloak, right?”

Neville certainly knew.  In fact, by the end of their third year, it had become something of an open secret in the Gryffindor tower.  No one else had owned one – in fact, only those with Auror parents had ever even seen one – but rather than begrudge him this prize, it was considered as just another quirk of the enigma that was the Boy Who Lived.

“Yes,” he answered cautiously.  “They’re on sale at Daly’s Detection and Concealment if you wanted to replace yours …”

Harry’s eyes seemed to twinkle for a second.  “No, the Cloak is fine for some years yet.  Actually, first I should have asked you—you’re familiar with ‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’, aren’t you?”

Neville didn’t know what a kid’s book had to do with anything, but he decided to humour his admittedly slightly barmy friend.  “Er, from _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_?  Yeah, Uncle Algie used to read it to me all the time, especially around Halloween.”

Leaning forward on his elbows secretively, Harry spoke, sotto voce. “What if I were to say that the story was real?  What if I were to tell you that my Invisibility Cloak was _the_ Invisibility Cloak – one of the three Deathly Hallows?”

“I’d say you’re barking,” Neville replied instantly.  Maybe he needed re-evaluate Harry’s judgment and bring in Hermione – this was starting to sound like he’d had one Confusing Concoction too many.

“So if I said that my Cloak used to be my father’s, and had been passed down over generations, you wouldn’t believe me?”

“I—” Neville paused.  The look on Harry’s face indicated that he needed to reflect on the question a little more before carefully before answering.  However, what Harry was saying was just impossible.  What sort of cloak could resist wear and tear for centuries and still be in good shape?

 _Hmm, Death’s cloak, perhaps?_ A voice in the corner of his mind suggested.

That was just silly.  The Deathly Hallows, real?  Hogwash.

But seeing Harry wait on his response with an expectant air, he realised that at the very least, his friend believed what he was saying.

“… Alright.  Let’s say that you’re right.  Let’s assume that ‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’ is not a myth or a child’s tale, but the account of an event that truly happened.  What then?”

“Well …” Neville recognised that look.  It was the same look, a mixture of sheepish and determined, that he had had on his face when he had taken Neville aside, summarised the events that had occurred in the Chamber of Secrets, and then – with no clue about the havoc he was wreaking on Neville’s sanity – requested that he keep an eye out for Ginny.

He winced, bracing himself for whatever earth-shattering announcement was coming his way.

Fidgeting in his seat, Harry said, “Well, what if—what if I were to say that this wand” – he waved the wand in his hand ineffectually – “is the Elder Wand?”

Neville could not form a single word.  Surely this was taking it a mite too far?  The Elder Wand, the _Deathstick_ , just centimetres from him, sitting innocently in the palm of his friend’s hand? 

Nope. Not a chance.  He was prepared to ascribe this to anything from an overdose of Essence of Insanity to Luna’s Wrackspurts.  Sure, Harry had been skewered by a basilisk fang and made it out alive, sure, he had died – _twice,_ his mind supplied helpfully – and survived, but this … A line had to be drawn somewhere, and for Neville, it was right here.

Except … Except Harry was looking at him, hope receding from his eyes and a familiar dull shine of defeat taking its place.  “Forget it, Ne—”

“Fine.” There was no plausible way this conversation would have been taking place if he had not been friends with Harry, and Neville wondered if he should be worried that he didn’t care. “Fine, that’s the Elder Wand. Anything else? No Resurrection Stone to complete the set?  Maybe you’re the Master of Death too?”  The hysteria in his voice was escalating as he realised that with Harry, any and all of these were statements that could potentially come out of his mouth.

Hands closed around his trembling ones, and he looked up to see Harry’s eyes shining with concern.  “Hey, Nev, it’s okay.  I’m not the Master of Death – I don’t see how that part can be valid, really.  And I don’t have the Resurrection Stone – well I did, but I threw it away” – Neville very firmly did not think about what that meant, no sir, he most certainly did not – “so it’s just these two.”

He hesitated, clearly wondering if he should go on.  “I had been thinking about this for a while, actually” – Neville was just about ready to collapse with trepidation – “but I need your permission.”  Hearing no protest, Harry continued.  “This wand used to be Dumbledore’s, you know.  I’ve only used it twice, to defeat Voldemort and then to repair my holly wand, before I put it back in his grave.  But recently …” His eyes darted to Neville’s face and away, and his words came out in a rush.  “I was reading books on mental conditions and their cures and was surprised at how little the magical world was able to do about such ailments.  So I read everything I could get my hands on – a regular Hermione I was,” he chuckled, “but there was barely anything!  The few cures I did find all involved spells, so I thought, what if what was needed was more power?  Maybe something could be done if a group of witches and wizards performed the spells together?  But apparently that had been tried, and had failed miserably – something to do with the arithmetic strength of the spells, which didn’t really understand.

“That’s when I remembered this wand.  Only I knew where it was – even Ron and Hermione thought I’d broken it in two and thrown away the pieces – so it would still be there.  I had retrieved it and was halfway to St. Mungo’s before I realised that there’s no way I could try anything without asking you. So … could I?”

Now, Neville was no Ravenclaw but he was not stupid, not by any means. But even he couldn’t read Harry’s mind without employing the judicious use of Legilimency, which he barely understood, let alone practiced.  “Could you what?”

“Oh. Er, could I cure your parents? That is to say, could I _try_ to cure your parents?”

Neville gaped at him as the meaning of the words sunk in.  Uncharacteristically, a wave of fury rose within him. How _dare_ Harry suggest something like this?  He had tried everything, _everything_ , known to mankind, both wizard and Muggle, to no avail. What gave him the right to give him hope where there was none at all?

But that sly voice was back in his head.  _What if?  This is_ Harry _, after all.  The Boy Who Lived, Chosen One, He Who Vanquished.  The one who emerged victorious against all odds.  When has he ever gone back on his word?_

But it just couldn’t be!  Suspension of disbelief could only be stretched so far, and this circumstance had far exceeded its bounds.  However, the seeds of hope had been planted in his mind and taken root with more force than he expected.

“You—you—” he stammered in a way that he hadn’t since fifth year.  He couldn’t believe he was actually entertaining the idea as a possibility.  “Y—you’re serious?”

Harry didn’t crack so much as a hint of a smile.  “Deadly.  I wouldn’t joke about something like this, Nev.”

Neville took in a deep, shuddering breath as he rubbed a hand down his face.

Sensing the impending defeat, the voice was becoming more insistent. _What could it hurt?  Worst case scenario, your parents stay in the same state they’ve been in for the past seventeen and a half years.  And if it works … you have the two people you’ve been wishing for more than anyone back in your life again._

“Alright,” he croaked.  “Alright, you can give it a go.  It won’t hurt them, will it?”

He was almost blinded by the beaming smile Harry flashed him.  “No, it won’t hurt at all.  It’s nothing complicated, just—well, you’ll see.” There was a slight pause. “Would you like to come with me?”

“You mean to try _now?_ ” 

The expression of bemused confusion on Harry’s face was almost … cute. _Cute? Where did that come from?_ Brushing his thoughts aside, he focused on Harry’s words.

“Well, yes. That is, if you don’t mind?”

The question left Neville stumped for a few seconds.  There really was no reason to delay, he realised. Involuntarily, a glimmer of excitement was starting to flutter in his stomach.

“Yeah, let’s go.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Walking along the familiar corridors of St. Mungo’s, Neville had to force his hands into fists to stop them from shaking.  The butterflies had multiplied until it felt like there were hundreds flitting back and forth inside him. 

Harry’s footsteps followed sedately behind him, despite knowing where they were headed.  Probably to give him some measure of control over this utterly incomprehensible situation, he realised.

By the time he reached the entrance into the Janus Thickey Ward, his heart was pounding painfully against his ribs.  He wiped his clammy hands onto his robes before pushing the door open.

Alice and Frank Longbottom were in their usual positions – laying at the far end of the ward on their standard hospital beds, which had been set on a comfortable incline.

Neville jumped when he felt a hand on his arm. 

Harry was looking at him solemnly.  “If—if this is—if you’re having second thoughts, I won’t blame you Neville.”

Neville was shaking his head before Harry completed is sentence.  “No—no, it’s fine, I promise.  It’s just surreal even considering that this may be the last time I see them like this – lying prone and immobile, at the mercy of the Healers and their various potions.  Merlin, they may be speaking to me in a few minutes!” The thought caused him to plop down into the nearest chair.  “What if – what if they’re disappointed?  I only got five N.E.W.T.s and I’m not an Auror, just an assistant profess—”

“Neville!” The stern tone broke him out of his panicked babbling.  “Neville, they’ll love you.  And if for some reason your worry about being ‘just an assistant professor’ continues to persist, remind me who _killed Voldemort’s gigantic snake_ and _destroyed a part of his soul_?  They’re your parents, I’m told loving is what they do.  They’ll be proud no matter what you’ve done,” he said with finality.

As Harry turned away, Neville caught sight of a fleeting glimpse of … something in his eyes.  The tendons of his neck stood out slightly, as though he was holding his body stiffly.

“Harry?” he asked softly, getting up and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Harry nodded and faced him again, smiling thinly.  A sheen of moisture glistened in his eyes, but he blinked it away rapidly.  As Neville replayed Harry’s last words, understanding dawned on him.

Of course it was hard for his friend – probably as hard as it was for himself, if in a different way.  Here he was, offering to cure the parents – to essentially return his parents to him, when Harry would never have the option for himself.  Harry would never be able to wave his wand and talk to his parents again. 

His throat was suddenly thick with emotion, and he squeezed Harry’s hand in gratitude and support.

Flashing him a small smile, Harry took out the wand from his pocket. He fingered it contemplatively for a few moments before pointing it at his parents.

“ _Episkey!  Episkey!”_ he casted in quick succession on each of them.

Neville stared at him in disbelief.  _Episkey?_   The spell used to heal a paper cut or, at most, a broken nose?  _That’s_ the ‘nothing complicated’ spell that Harry meant?

A sound to his left had him turning mechanically, almost against his wish. In front of him, Alice Longbottom was struggling out of the bed and slowly shuffling in his direction. He stood rooted to the spot as, inch by inch, she lifted her hand to his face.

“N– ” She coughed.  “Neville.” Her voice was filled with a tearful sort of awe.  Her thumb stroked his cheek gently as she drank in the man before her.

“M—Mum?” His voice cracked, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the situation.  “Is it really you?” 

He scooped her tenderly into his arms, half-afraid her frail form would evaporate before his eyes.

“Hmm,” she sighed, smiling affectionately, the top of her head barely reaching the middle of his chest.  Her warm brown eyes, so like his own, were still watching him, showing more life than he had ever seen.

A light touch brushed his shoulder, so brief that Neville thought he imagined it. His father – the man whom his grandmother had regaled him with numerous valiant tales of – was standing beside him, looking fit to burst with pride and love.

 _‘They’ll be proud no matter what you’ve done.’_   Harry’s words floated across his mind.

Harry! He had nearly forgotten about him! Glancing around quickly, he spotted him leaning against the doors of the ward, a fond smile gracing his lips. Neville couldn’t help but notice that he was all but shining with happiness and contentment, a strange softness surrounding him.

He looked back at his parents, feeling like his face would break in two from how wide his own smile was growing.  “Mum, D—Dad, this is Harry,” he gestured—

But when he looked up again, Harry was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This won’t be a very long fic – most likely just one more chapter to go. My priority is ‘Don’t Judge a Master by Its Death’, so an update might not appear for a while (or it might come in a few days, heh – depends on my very flighty inspiration).
> 
> Please review! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Dealing with the harried and perplexed Healers took much longer than Neville had expected—especially when he couldn’t give them the real reason for his parents’ sudden and miraculous recovery—but he had finally convinced them (by subtly dropping the formidable Augusta Longbottom’s name) that he should be able to take his parents home.  Nevertheless, it was a solitary figure that stepped out of the hospital two hours later, the Healers having somehow persuaded him to leave his parents overnight to “run some tests and confirm their health”—as though that hadn’t been what they were already doing. 

Realising that he still hadn’t informed his grandmother of the developments and fearing her wrath, he quickly sent off a Patronus explaining the situation.

Rain was falling down on him, gaining strength with every minute.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the puddle forming at his feet.

It had never been more than a passing thought before, but he really did take after his mother.  A giddy and nervous sort of feeling travelled through him.  His mother!  His mother, Alice Longbottom, who, along with his father, was alive—properly—and would be a part of his life as a true _parent_.

No way was he getting a wink of sleep tonight.

And it was all because of his wonderful, caring, selfless friend.  What Neville wanted to do more than anything was give Harry the biggest, most bone-crushing, and heartfelt hug he had ever received.

And why shouldn’t he?  Nodding decisively, he turned on his heel and Disapparated, Grimmauld Place fixed in his mind.

He landed across from the small space between Number 11 and Number 13. The Fidelius had been recast after the war so that Harry could retain some privacy and leave his home without traversing a horde of over-zealous reporters.  _Harry Potter lives at Number 12, Grimmauld Place._   As soon as he had thought these words, the dark, majestic house expanded into view. 

Neville walked up the steps and knocked firmly.  The door swung open almost immediately, and he found himself looking down at the surly old house-elf of the Blacks. 

“Yes?” the elf snapped irritably, glaring balefully at him.

“Could I see Harry, please?”

“Master Potter is not home.”

“Oh.” It had not occurred to him that Harry might have gone elsewhere.  “Er, do you know when he'll be back?  Or where he is?”

The elf frowned at him suspiciously.  After a few moments’ of grudging consideration, he said, “Master Potter came home to pick some tulips.  Master Potter only takes tulips when he goes to Godric’s Hollow.”  With that, the glowering elf slammed the door shut.

 _Oh_. 

Godric’s Hollow. 

Where the Potters had sacrificed their lives for their infant son, and where they had been laid to rest. 

Neville’s heart clenched painfully.

Berating himself for his insensitivity, he took a moment to weigh his options. Should he follow Harry there? His grandmother had taken him to see the memorial once, years ago—before he had even started Hogwarts—but he remembered it well enough.  Making a split second decision, he Disapparated once more, picturing the Potter family statue as clearly as he could.

Under an overcast night sky, the rain was now pouring down.  After surreptitiously scanning the area for Muggles, he quickly conjured a large umbrella. 

The Potters smiled down at him kindly; he shivered, turning his back on them.

He could just barely make out the silhouettes of the many graves in the cemetery ahead. Making his way over quickly, he pushed the gate open and slid inside.

At first glance, he thought the graveyard was empty.  Peering once more carefully through the sheets of rain, he scanned the area from one side to the other.  _There!_ What he had initially disregarded as another headstone was a in fact a figure sitting on the ground, with a tuft of dark hair sticking out the back of his head. 

Neville’s legs were already moving, despite his mounting sense of apprehension. As he approached closer, he realised that Harry was leaning back on his arms, face tilted up into the downpour. In front of him, leaning against the gravestone, were two bouquets.  One, as the house-elf had said, consisted of tulips, red for love and white—Neville’s breath stuttered—as an apology. 

The other was a beautiful bunch of pink cyclamens.  Neville remembered a passage in his old Herbology textbook: _In Muggle herb-lore, the cyclamen is considered to be a symbol of resignation and farewell_. _It is often given to a friend who is moving or retiring, or to bid goodbye at a funeral_.

The dull throbbing in his chest intensified. 

Gently, he lowered himself next to his friend, charming the conjured umbrella to hover a few inches above their heads.  “Harry?”

Moisture seeped through his pants to his skin, and he hastily cast a Drying Spell on himself, the ground underneath, and Harry. 

Harry had not so much as twitched at his appearance.  “Neville.”

Neville opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the words to say … anything. What _could_ he say?  Sorry for being an inconsiderate prat?  Sorry that his own parents were well again, while Harry’s remained forever buried under the ground? 

But as it turned out, he didn’t have to say anything because Harry spoke first.

“I thought it’d be okay, you know,” he whispered, barely above a croak in the hammering rain.  Neville shifted closer, straining his ears, until their shoulders touched.  “I thought it would be great, in fact. And it is, don’t get me wrong. It’s wonderful, _marvellous_ , that you have your parents back now. I—I’m extremely happy that my harebrained idea even worked.  I had my doubts from the start, and I know you were more than a little sceptical.  But it worked, and I’m over the moon for you.

“But—” His voice cracked.

Neville’s heart followed suit. 

“But sometimes—sometimes it’s just so _hard_. I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve imagined growing up with my parents instead of the Dursleys.”

Neville bit his tongue to stop the disparaging comments about those horrible … people.

“I’ve met my parents, you know,” Harry said softly, “in a mirror, or as shades of themselves.  But there is only one true memory I have of them while they were both still alive—well … mostly alive.  And ironically, I have the Dementors to thank for that.”  He laughed, a cold, bitter rasp. 

Goosebumps erupted up Neville’s arms. 

Harry continued monotonously, eyes fixed blankly ahead.  “Even now, the memory still haunts my dreams sometimes. My father, yelling at my mum to take me and run, only to die trying to hold Voldemort off.  Voldemort coming after my mum, who tried to shield me behind her.  My mum, begging him futilely to spare me—to take her instead.  And then he killed her." 

He paused, taking in a shuddering breath. 

“There was so much _green_ ,” he whispered brokenly. 

Unconsciously, Neville wrapped his fingers around the clenched hand beside him, and Harry jolted at the touch.

He turned abruptly, gazing at him beseechingly.  “Is it so wrong of me to wish that they were still alive? That they didn’t die? Tha—that they’d given me up, that _I_ had died instead?”

Neville didn’t know _what_ he was feeling—but he knew with utmost certainty that he’d never felt anything like this before. There was a strange, heavy pressure on his chest, suffocating him, like he was drowning with the force of the multitude of emotions washing through him.  Unable to hold back any longer, he succumbed to the overwhelming urge to pull Harry close to him, yanking the bony wrist under his hand to him. 

Maybe—somehow—he could help carry the burden that rested on the thin, world-weary shoulders.

He caught a glimpse of Harry’s eyes widening behind his round glasses before he fell so hard into Neville that Neville almost toppled over onto his back.  He sat up slowly, careful not to dislodge the surprisingly strong grip that Harry had around his waist.  Threading his fingers through the dark hair— _oh, so soft!_ —he tilted Harry’s head up, away from where it had been nestled on his chest.

Any words that he was about to say evaporated at the sight.

There were tears—heartbreaking and beautiful—clinging to the lashes of the achingly vulnerable face.  The green of his eyes was barely visible in the dimness, but they were still incredibly expressive.  His lips were pressed tightly together in a straight line, as though afraid of making a sound.

Neville could just see himself in the lens of Harry’s glasses.  There was a look about him—fierce and wretched and _yearning_ —that he had never seen in the mirror before, never knew he was _capable_ of making.

“Nev,” Harry breathed, so softly he may have imagined it, had he not felt the light puff of air on his own lips.

Suddenly, the space between them vanished.  Neville didn’t know who had moved first, but Harry’s mouth was desperately fused to his own, like he was trying to suck the very soul out of him. The hands that had been at his waist were tangled tightly into the hair at the base of his neck. Harry was squirming closer, as though trying to burrow himself into Neville’s skin.  More than once their teeth clashed, but it only served to spur them on.

It was hungry, impulsive, almost violent—and it was _perfect_.

“No,” he gasped, finally wrenching himself away, panting as he rested his forehead on Harry’s. 

Harry blinked at him dazedly, and Neville had to fight the temptation to kiss that look into permanence.  Drawing on self-control he didn’t know he possessed, he shook his head. 

“No, it’s not wrong.  It can never be wrong to wish that your parents were here with you.  But please,” Neville implored, “please don’t leave. Don’t leave us—me—behind. You may not have your parents, but there are so many others that love you.  Hermione, Ron, the rest of the Wealeys, Luna, Andromeda, Teddy, … me,” he whispered finally, eyes falling shut at the admission.

He felt, rather than heard the sigh, before Harry’s head came on rest on his shoulder. “I know,” Harry replied, just as quietly, “I know you all love me, and that knowledge is more precious than any gift I can ever receive.  But … I certainly didn’t expect … this … you, in this way …” 

Neville had assumed, give the rather eager participation on Harry’s part, that he shared similar feelings of fondness, but the first stirrings of doubt crept in at Harry’s chuckle. 

“Look at me, incapable of stringing together a few words.  What I mean is, I had never imagined us in such a position, not even once.”

His heart sank.  He had read it all wrong.  Of course he had. Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom?  How could he have been so stupid? 

“… feels so right.”

Wait, what? He opened his eyes, staring at the man in his lap.  “Say that again?”

Harry sat up and cupped his cheek, affection shining in his eyes.  “I said, now that it’s happened, I don’t know why we hadn’t done this sooner, and that I can’t imagine another way when it feels so right. Wouldn’t you agree, Nev?”

He was definitely gaping now.  “Er, yes.  Should’ve been sooner … feels right … agree …”  Mortified, he shut his mouth with a snap.

A laughing kiss was pressed softly to the corner of his mouth.  “Precisely.  So how about we head back to Grimmauld—or your place—and you demonstrate exactly how thoroughly you agree and we make up for lost time, yeah?”

Neville’s heart expanded until it felt like it would burst out of his chest. Crushing him to his body, he wound his arms around him securely.  “Yeah,” he murmured contentedly, breathing in the earthy scent of Harry’s hair.

“Yeah, sounds bloody brilliant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, I finished this! Before I forgot about it! It took a slightly different tone than I had initially expected, but another story I read put me in this introspective, rainy sort of mood that I couldn’t shake off.
> 
> I keep forgetting to mention this whenever I post/update something, but feel free to give me prompts. There’s this vague idea I have of creating a mass deposit of drabbles that I can add to whenever the mood strikes or if my brain is need of a little lubrication.
> 
> Reviews are loved! :)


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